


Household Pests

by ariadnes_string



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Tuesday, there were three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Household Pests

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveChilde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/gifts).



On Tuesday, there were three.

The first arrived soon after John had left for work. Olivia was strapped into her bouncy seat, gnawing a teething ring, and Mary was taking a stab at the washing up. Progress was slow—it had been a particularly wakeful night with the baby. As she stared unfocused through the window onto the back garden, though, a movement caught her eye. Then another.

“Bugger,” said Mary, and flipped the switch over the sink that activated the electric fence. A muted yelp drifted over the hedge. 

Mary made a mental note to remember to turn off the perimeter defenses before John got home. 

The second one came as she was settled with Livvy in the rocker for her midday feed. 

“Domestic life, eh?” Mary thought with a shudder, surveying the wreckage of her sitting room, strewn with baby equipment and adult clutter. A pile of laundry had taken up permanent residence on the sofa, and a gaggle of mugs had colonized the coffee table and seemed to be multiplying on its own. She didn’t even dare think about the rest of the flat. A spider had invaded the loo again, and she hated spiders. 

“I’ll get to it as soon as she’s done,” Mary promised herself. But Livvy’s rhythmic sucking and the slip and glide of the chair were lulling, and so she was half-asleep when she heard the tiny creak of the window opening. “How the hell did anyone get through the fence?” she wondered, but she kept her eyes closed and carefully slid her hand off Livvy so she could undo the childproof fastening of the weapon stashed under the chair. 

(“You’re not thinking of keeping a gun in the house with the baby?” John had demanded, outraged.

“Oh, you’re getting rid of yours, then, are you?” Mary had shot back.

They’d tried to stare each other down for a full sixty seconds, then spent the next three hours on the internet ordering the latest in safe firearms storage.)

Mary waited another beat, heart pounding. Then she shifted Livvy to one arm, rose smoothly to her feet and leveled the weapon at the intruder, catching him off-balance halfway through the window.

“I wouldn’t try it,” she said, as he reflexively reached for his own gun. “Now back out the way you came, and no one gets hurt.”

To her relief, he took her advice. An older guy, a professional, but not one for risks, apparently. Mary was glad. Gunfire was remarkably hard to explain to the neighbours.

She did up her nursing bra. “Used to be able to do this without my tits hanging out,” she thought. “Those were the days.”

When the third arrived, Livvy was plonked happily in her activity center—kind gift an American John knew from Afghanistan—and Mary was finally attempting to pick up the debris. 

She’d got a much-needed second wind. Livvy was making an adorable set of faces as she tried to work out the spinning beads and blocks; sunlight was coming through the windows; and a mix of old disco a friend had sent her was blaring through the speakers. Domestic life might not be so bad after all.

This one came through the skylight. Mary blamed ABBA for the fact that she didn’t notice him until he was nearly on the ground. 

“I thought people only did that in movies,” she said disgustedly, dropping the onesie she was folding and getting into a fighter’s stance.

“Yeah, but I’ve always wanted to try it. Pretty cool,” he said—American, arrogant, masked—and lunged for her.

Mary had been working out as much as she could, but she knew her reflexes were still slow and her muscles still recovering. She dodged backward, and got her hands up in a defensive posture. 

Luckily, however, her would-be attacker was unprepared for the perils of life with kids. His right foot landed on Livvy’s favourite stuffed animal—a penguin. He skidded, overbalanced, and then nearly went down completely when the bird made an ornithologically correct squawk, thanks to the tiny microchip hidden in its belly.

Mary stepped in to finish the job. One foot on his back, she neatly dislocated the man’s shoulder, and then wrenched his knee for good measure. “Don’t be a baby,” she hissed, when he groaned in pain. 

She hauled him up by the scruff of his neck, fury giving her strength, opened the front door, and literally kicked him down the steps. Let the neighbours think what they like, she fumed, watching him limp away, cradling one arm. 

From her activity center, Olivia made an indeterminate puzzled noise.

“Oh, love, I’m so sorry,” Mary cried, turning, ready to comfort and console. “Mama got rid of the bad man. He’s all gone now.”

But when she focused on her daughter’s face, she saw that it was suffused with glee. Livvy windmilled her arms and blew a raspberry.

“Bloody genetics,” Mary thought, half horrified and half proud. 

“What a day I’ve had,” said John, when he came in, three hours later, and for a moment Mary contemplated maiming him, too. But then he scooped the now-fussy Livvy out of her arms, said “who’s for a nice cuppa, then?” and she decided to let him live.

“Everything quiet here?” he called on his way to the kitchen.

Mary grunted non-committedly. “More or less. There’s a spider in the bathtub again. Be a dear, would you?”

“Honestly, Mary,” John snorted, kettle in one hand, Livvy cradled in other arm. “I don’t know how you survive, frightened of simple household pests.”

You and me, both, she thought.

 

And some virtual hamantaschen for you, too, LoveChilde!

**Author's Note:**

> The opinions expressed in this story about firearms in the home are those of the characters, not the author. 
> 
> P. gave me some helpful advice about UK baby gear.. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> The image is my own.


End file.
